Virtue Hath No Tongue To Check Vice's

By This Time, Like One Who Had Set Out On His Way By Night, And Travelled Through A Region Of Smooth Or Idle Dreams, Our History Now Arrives On The Confines, Where Daylight And Truth Meet Us With A Clear Dawn, Representing To Our View, Though At A Far Distance, True Colours And Shapes.

For No Falsehood Can Endure Touch Of Celestial Temper.

Beauty Is God's Handwriting-a Wayside Sacrament.

To Hear The Lark Begin His Flight, And Singing Startle The Dull Night, From His Watch-tower In The Skies, Till The Dappled Dawn Doth Rise.

Say, Heavenly Pow'rs, Where Shall We Find Such Love? Which Of Ye Will Be Mortal To Redeem Man's Mortal Crime, And Just Th' Unjust To Save.